


this ruined puzzle

by lookingforatardis



Series: find your way back [1]
Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: AU technically, Angst, Elio has a son, Future Fic, Getting Back Together, M/M, gratuitous music references to the 90s and 2001, idk man
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-09
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-07-28 20:16:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 18,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16249079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookingforatardis/pseuds/lookingforatardis
Summary: Elio's 14 year old son makes a few friends in 2001 that help him and his father finally heal the wounds they've both been nursing for years, as well as address the "what-if's" Elio and Oliver have lived with since their summer in Italy.(prompt was Elio's teenage son meeting Oliver.... it spiraled and it's my own fault)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Listen, my only explanation for this spiraling from a one shot into god knows what this will be when it's over, is that I realized Elio having a teenage son means I get to listen to late 90s and early 2000s music while I write (so basically what I already listen to all the time) im not sorry 
> 
> The year is 2001, so Oliver's sons are 13 and 15. 
> 
> STICK WITH THIS THOUGH!!! I'm really happy with where it's going and playing with Elio and Oliver as seen through the eyes of their kids is really interesting to me

"Sorry!"

"Nah, it's cool man," I mutter, smiling at the guy's shirt, The Cure, vintage, a little big on his frame. I compliment it and he beams as I notice a carbon copy of him walking up and nodding at me. It's that jackass from about a month ago at the record store on west 18th who got the last copy of the new Blink-182 album. Bastard. 

I smile and nod back at him. They must be brothers if their blond hair, blue eyes, and matching jaw lines are any indicators. 

"Stop running off bitch, if I lose you Dad will kill me," he says, but I can by the way he shoves the younger one that he doesn't mean it to be cruel. I get shoved again, the bodies filing in, but stand my ground to keep my place. I'd been begging Dad to let me go to TRL for weeks and he finally caved (or rather, he realized I'd do it anyway). It's messy though and I had to fight a crowd of Carson fans to get to my spot. Seems they've done the same.

"You ever find a copy of the album?" Jackass asks. I glance at his brother and give them a tight lipped smile.

"It's a big city, I managed," I reply, noting that he had at least as good of a memory as me as I look towards the front to see if they're setting up yet. 

"What'dya think?" he asks. I resist the urge to roll my eyes (I can tell this guy's used to his charm working anyone into a conversation with him) and turn back.

"It's good," I shrug, noncommittal. Playing it cool until he reveals his cards.

"Andrew played that one song really loud and got grounded for two weeks," the younger says, earning a punch in the shoulder from Jackass-- Andrew-- and a laugh from me.

" _ Shut up? _ " He nods and I laugh again, easing into their casual demeanors in the midst of fans everywhere. "Mine gave me a copy of Nirvana's last album to get me to stop listening to it," I say. “His attempt at meeting me halfway or something, I don’t know.” 

"Wait, you listen to music he doesn't like and to punish you he gives you… more music? Really?"

"Gotta play the system," I shrug, trying to control my smirk. "He's a musician so I think he takes my music taste as a personal attack. He's more of a Cure fan himself," I nod to the younger one. "Came home with Third Eye Blind a few months ago and he sat me down and made me listen to the Talking Heads with him for like an hour and then gave me the album for 'my own research,'" I laugh.

"Oh God, now  _ that _ sounds like our Dad," Andrew laughs. "I'm Andrew by the way," he adds.

"So I gathered. I'm Sam," I tell him.

"Brandon," the younger offers when nudged by his brother.

They make an announcement about the taping and our conversation dies out in favor of excitement.

I find out Andrew goes to the same high school as Carly, my reluctant childhood best friend-- they even know each other-- so we exchange numbers and decide to meet up together. I can tell Brandon feels immediately let out, so I invite him along despite his brother's obvious discomfort. I don't have any siblings, so his unease is lost on me. He's pretty cool though, for a middle schooler.

Dad, for what it's worth, doesn't grill me when I get home. He asks if I had fun and I nod before heading into my room. "Hey!" I turn back, hand lingering on the doorframe into the hallway to stare at him. I can tell immediately he had no plan further than  _ hey _ so I walk away, turning slowly to give him one more chance. He doesn’t engage, but I can see he wants to. I can only offer up so much before it’s forced, so I nod once more and leave.

I flip through CDs until I find The Verve Pipe and throw it on before picking up the copy of  _ The Odyssey  _ I'm supposed to read (or rather, reread) for class this year. The album is half over by the time he knocks, the somber guitar framing his words as he stares at the book in my hands.

"I'm sorry," he says. I nod and look back down.

"I know." No use in prolonging his suffering when he actually tries.

"She couldn't make it happen, I'm sor--"

"Dad, it's not your fault. It's okay."

"She wanted to come," he tells me. I nod and turn a page in the book, holding my finger in my place; I don't actually read a word. "She tried."

"Dad. Seriously. It's not your problem, you don’t have to apologize."

"I know," he nods. Mom was supposed to fly in for Thanksgiving this year and we just found out it wouldn't happen before I left for the taping today. She called him in a frenzy and I heard  _ don’t do this to him _ so many times that I left without a word. Something about her boyfriend’s family, I think. I didn't really listen past my dad’s voice echoing  _ so you can't make it _ . Their relationship has never been strained, but for some god forsaken reason ours is. I think he feels guilty. She’s basically a stranger at this point, though, he shouldn’t be so upset. It’s awkward more than anything when she comes around. 

"Okay…" He taps on the door frame. I know he’s unsettled, that he probably worried about it the entire time I was gone and my flippant attitude gives him nothing to go off of. He processes— I watch the thoughts run across his face; he must realize he can’t break through the wall I’ve placed between us on the subject. "Haven't heard this one in a while ," he notes, referencing the music, always a “safe” subject in his mind. I shrug. "Okay…" he trails off, looking around my room. Sometimes when he gets like this, I remember that I was never a part of the plan, that fatherhood was never something he considered, and he’s at least trying whereas she can’t be bothered. "Dinner will be ready soon," he says before walking out and leaving the door open an inch. I contemplate leaving it before standing to shut it and returning to my spot on the floor.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so excited this is getting some traction! Thanks for giving this a shot-- I know it's quite different for this fandom.

A few days later, Carly tells me Andrew found her between classes. She wants to go out to hear some shitty band but apparently Andrew shuts the plan down in favor of something more chill. It takes about a week for us to nail down a plan, but something about it makes it a little easier to deal with classes and Dad. I don't have a lot of friends, even less who I'd consider actually spending time with outside of school, and it feels kind of like a shifting tide. Or at least like, a ripple in the water or something.

"I'm going out," I call over my shoulder as I walk towards the front door.

"Woah, hey, what? It's a school night." He looks up from the pile of sheet music in front of him, red pencil in hand, eyebrows high. He sits at the dining room table, not the piano, and I sigh. Another "theory" day, as he calls them. This place is too goddamn quiet.

"It's for a school project," I shrug. He lowers his pencil and narrows his eyes. "It's with Carly."  It occurs to me too late that Carly and I don't go to the same school anymore now that we're in high school. I suppose it's time to find a new excuse.

"Samuel," he sighs.

"Elio," I mimic the tone of his voice. He's not particularly amused.

"What are you _actually_ doing?" he asks.

"Don't freak out," I start, knowing it'll probably have the opposite affect but also knowing how he is when it comes to people he doesn't know. "I met these guys at TRL and Carly knows them from school. We're just gonna hang out we aren't even going out," I say. "It's not a big deal, seriously."

"Sam, I don't--"

"Feel comfortable, I know. Please just trust me." I know I can sneak out, but for some reason his permission feels important this time.

"How old are they?"

"Why does that matter?" I ask, but he doesn't budge. "They're my age, Dad. They're harmless."

"Where do they--"

"Oh my god, Dad. Goodnight," I mutter as I walk towards the door.

"Alright, hey! Come on, I just want to make sure you're being smart." I can hear the words he doesn't say, the _you're it for me, don't be stupid_ he'd never dare speak to me for fear of turning the mood sour. It's old, though, this guilt game we play where it's my fault he worries about everything. I shake my head and wonder at what point he'll grow tired of this fight when it happens every time I try to leave.

"Your parents let you galivant around the fucking Italian--"

" _Language."_

"--countryside without supervision, don't give me this bullshit." He stares at me and I know I've crossed a line because he doesn't like that I'm old enough to swear without fear of him judging me, but also because he doesn't like me bringing up his youth. Sometimes when he drinks he'll tell stories of friends and cousins he's lost touch with in the past couple of years. He stopped going back after he met Mom, or at least, he stopped going every summer. I think he misses it, or at least the far off look in his eyes when I bring it up makes me think he does. Last time we went, Mom told him to grow up and get over his glory days. He was uncharacteristically quiet. I don’t know, that moment's always stuck with me.

"Did it ever occur to you that perhaps it is _because_ I was unsupervised that I try to protect you?" he asks quietly. His thumb drums against the table softly and I wonder if he's thinking of his "glory days" as she called them, if those days included his stories of getting drunk off wine midday and swimming the sorrows of youth away. "You know your curfew. Call if something happens, please." I nod after a moment and walk away, closing the door behind me and locking it. I don’t know why I hesitate before leaving, but I don't falter for long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's super short but that's because I didn't want to get into them meeting yet since it's a little longer. It should be up soon...ish haha  
> Thanks for reading everyone :D


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr. Z

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyy so first of all, thank you for reading!! Second, this chapter is where it really starts. I'm writing ahead of you reading, so I'm currently writing two chapters ahead of this in the hopes that I can actually produce some consistent chapters for you guys!

I meet up with Carly on the way to their place, her glare telling me it's been "one of those goddamn days" as she likes to say. I can tell before asking it'll be Bikini Kill coming through her headphones, so I leave her be until I need to know which button to buzz at their building. "3B," she says, nodding and reaching out to press it herself. I raise my eyebrows at her casual tone. She rolls her eyes and says, "I had to sneak out, Mom's being a bitch again. It's fine, I'm over it." 

"Okaaay," I say, looking back at the door as we get buzzed in. 

I've known Carly since I was three when we moved to the city and our moms set up weekly playdates. She's technically my third cousin or something on our moms' sides, but we don't really talk about that unless people try to pair us together. It's a sore subject, apparently, what with the familial connection requiring her to acknowledge she is in fact her mother's daughter. She's probably the angriest person I've ever met and I'm not sure when that even happened, but she's always been relatively nice to me. I think I'm the brother she never wanted but needed anyway, so she tolerates my antics and "shitty boy music." She's also the only person who's ever seen me cry, I guess aside from Mom and Dad when I was little. She's the one who brings me cookies when she knows it's a bad day and scribbles doodles on my homework when I can't find the motivation to do it. When we were younger, we'd say it's us against the world. Now we're just two assholes with misfit genes and something to prove to I don't even know who. Someone. It's just what she says. 

* * *

 

"Hey, so um. My dad won't leave," Andrew says when he answers the door. His dad was supposed to be at a work dinner, which was why they suggested we just go to their apartment. "He's agreed to leave us alone," he adds a little louder, rolling his eyes and opening the door wider for us to walk in. "Ordered pizza, it'll be here soon." I nod and ignore Carly smirking at me. (Apparently my family being in Italy means she gets to look at me every time I eat Americanized Italian food as if I'm a disappointment to a lineage of supposedly Italian ancestors. Never mind that my family actually just lives there, isn't actually _from_ there. Of course that doesn't matter.)

Their house is nice, in a library kind of way. It reminds me of Grandpa's villa in Italy in that sense-- bookshelves with various volumes lining them, papers tucked in the spaces above, notebooks and more textbooks on a coffee table with a near-empty and likely cold coffee mug accompanying it. "He had to do some work from home I guess," Andrew shrugs with a careless hand in the table's direction. We walk through the space and I hear humming in the distance but pay no mind as something catches my eye; I pick up the copy of _Armance_ on the side table, staring at the familiar copy a moment. "Brandon has to finish his homework," he says, his voice light with laughter that hides under the surface. I put the book back and catch up to them as they pass the dining area (where Brandon is perched, flipping off Andrew) and go towards what I presume is their room. 

We end up listening to music and talking about movies, Brandon joining us eventually. He's got a lot of confidence, I think, to walk into a room of people older than him with a careless smile and nod at us. He sits down and turns the conversation easily, though I guess his brother allows it since he doesn't seem to be in the mood to fight with him. Carly has a younger sister and all they ever do is fight. She seems to be making note of this interaction as well. 

There's a knock on the door, but it's really just a curtesy because it opens wide before Andrew has a chance to say anything, and suddenly their dad is taking up the entire doorway with a hand on the doorknob and the other casually resting at his hip. I say their dad because there's literally no way they are not biologically related, my god. As much as Brandon looks like Andrew, I realize it's nothing compared to the resemblance to the man in the doorway. People say I look more like my father than my mother, but I don't really see it aside from my hair-- this is entirely different. They're like little ken dolls all together, Jesus. 

"Hey kids--" I glance over in time to catch Andrew rolling his eyes-- "the food is here." He leaves the door open and walks away towards the kitchen with the kind of confidence that doesn't even think to wonder if we'll follow or not because he _knows_ we will. It's intimidating in a way I'm not accustomed to.

We follow, oh god do we follow like sheep, not even his sons complaining about him barging in. 

He's got plates set up around a table and is reaching for napkins when Andrew loses it. "Are you _serious_? Dad." 

"Well I thought--"

"We're eating in my room." 

"Andrew," he scolds. They lock eyes for a moment before Andrew grinds his teeth and shrugs at me. _Sorry_ he mouths. Their dad turns to Carly and I and smiles, extends his hand. "Hi, I'm Mr. Zimmerman," he says. "Forgive my sons' manners," he says, his smile turning to a sort of smirk as he glances back at his sons. "They mean well but, what are you gonna do." I can feel the heat of Andrew's glare from here, even Brandon's to an extent. In an way I can't yet place, he reminds me of my grandpa. It's nice to be reminded sometimes, so I relish it. 

"Sam," I say, shaking his hand. Carly just stares at it and he seems to understand it's not happening; he nods at her when she tells him her name. We sit down and he starts passing pizza around, and I find that after the initial tension, the three of them get along pretty well. They have inside jokes they reign in since they have company, but it's enough to see they're clearly close. I don't ask about their mom in case it's a sore subject; they haven't mentioned her and while Mr. Z wears a ring, I don't see signs of a woman living here at all. 

Carly and I end up laughing hysterically as Mr. Z and Andrew tag team a story at Brandon's expense from his childhood when he tore the pages out of Homer's works as a riot against the classics, much to Mr. Z's chagrin. "Dad was just standing there in horror when Bran rambled off about hating the Greeks for no reason. It was so funny, Dad was holding all the pages and muttering _no son of mine_ \--"

"This is so fun for me," Brandon comments, but I can see his eyes are light and the sarcasm is surface level to add to the fun. It's easy for them, I think. As much as Andrew seemed to dislike his dad, it's clearly a show because they're so obviously friends.

It's different from Dad and I these days. We used to be like that, too, I think. He used to come home and make pasta and we'd sit at the piano for hours while he came up with stupid melodies and songs to make me laugh. I was little, though. 

We end up hanging out together for the rest of the evening, Brandon asking if we could listen to records and Mr. Z offering up his old collection willingly. My dad doesn't do records, but my grandparents had some in Italy. Aside from them, though, I'd never really listened to a record player, which they find amusing. Carly has even less exposure, and it becomes _a thing_ very quickly, the three of them deciding the different albums we _have_ to listen to right now. I don't have the heart to tell them CDs are what people actually listen to now, that records are seriously old school. Something tells me they wouldn't care.

It's warm here, I realize later as Carly and I make our way home. When they're with their dad, Brandon and Andrew are warmer and the entire fucking apartment is just like, like…

It isn't until I'm home and have sufficiently dodged Dad's incessant questioning that I realize. 

It's just like Italy, before we stopped going, before the funeral. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts???


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU to everyone reading! It means a lot <3

"What are you humming?" Dad asks at breakfast, his eyes hard on me. I swallow my eggs and narrow my gaze. Carly and I have hung out with Andrew and Brandon so much over the past few weeks that it seems foreign to be here at all. Dad seems restless-- I'm not sure for how long.

"Am I not allowed to hum anymore?" I ask, putting my fork down.

"No, I just…" He looks at me, searches my face, his eyes dropping to his plate. "It just sounded familiar. Forget I asked."

"It's something Andrew's dad played yesterday," I shrug. "I don't remember." He looks back up at me and I can see the question on the tip of his tongue and wait to see if he'll ask, if he's willing to start a fight this morning with _oh so you'll talk to Andrew's dad but not me._

He stays silent and I almost wish he wouldn't. He tiptoes around me and I hate it.  He's only gotten quieter. He doesn't like to engage in conversation with me if he thinks it'll end in an argument. This summer, he broke down and told me he didn't have the energy to fight me anymore, and ever since then it's been pretty civil but quiet. I might be an asshole, but even I know when it matters that I respond.

"It was the psychedelic something," I say, looking down. "I don't know the name of the song."

"Oh," he says, nodding slowly. I glance up and see him swallow hard. "Psychedelic Furs," he offers.

"Yes!" I nearly shout, recognition flooding my memory. "Thanks, I was trying to remember," I shake my head at myself, cataloging the information for later. I should have just asked; he has similar taste in music to Mr. Z, I should have assumed he'd know it.

"His dad played it?" he asks. I nod and he watches me for a moment. Sometimes I think about what it was like when I was younger and he was anything but quiet, always playing the piano or humming or laughing or running his mouth a mile a minute with some quip or commentary about the day. "You've been spending a lot of time there," he says. I narrow my gaze and lean back in my chair.

"Yeah?"

"I'm just noting the time you spend with them," he shrugs. I stare at him for a moment and roll my eyes.

"No, you're trying to make me feel bad about spending more time with him than you," I mutter, staring at my piece of toast still on the plate.

"Sam," he sighs. I see from the corner of my eye that he's rubbing a hand over his face. "I don't mind, I'm glad you're happy." The sound of his voice makes me want to retreat, the almost indecipherable shake in it clear to my practiced ears. I never know what to say when he gets like this. He clears his throat and takes a deep breath and I look up to see him cross his arms over the table.

"I can invite them over here," I say. It's been a rough year for the both of us, and as much as I want to keep my refuge separate from him, I guess it makes sense that he might not want to be alone all the time, either.

"Oh, I don't want you to feel obligated," he waves off with a hand. "It's alright." I can tell it isn't. I know him far too well to know it isn't.

"I'm not there for their dad." He looks up and breathes deeply. "He's not replacing you," I say, feeling like maybe it's necessary for him to hear. As much shit as I give him, I know he worries about his inadequacy enough as is. He nods a few times before breaking eye contact and clearing his throat again. "Just so you know," I shrug, picking up my toast, trying to play off the conversation, though all it does is effectively kill it. We sit in silence until it's so deafening neither one of us seems to be able to stand it. 

"I spoke with grandma yesterday. I think it would be nice if you called her soon. She misses you," he says after my toast is gone. Should have stayed quiet.

"Is she going to remember me?" I ask, eyes lifting as I try to control my voice. He makes a face and I add, "I'm not trying to be an ass, I'm actually asking."

"I think so. It's not bad yet," he says. "She remembers me."

"You're her son," I say.

"And you’re her grandson. She'll remember you." This time, I can almost hear. She'll remember me _this time._ The doctor said it's a "when" not "if" she forgets, but Dad says we "still have time" as if that makes it any better. Maybe it does for him. Since Grandpa died, she's been "getting worse." That's what the doctors say. Just…getting worse. Whatever the fuck that means. I had to watch it happen all at once, Mom finally moving to Spain, Grandpa dying, Grandma losing her mind, all so fast we barely had time to recover. Dad shut down faster than I did, probably to save me the trouble of being strong for him. He probably knew I'd try.

So instead, we fell into a rhythm of denial or… or, quiet acceptance of what happened. We stopped talking about it and at a certain point that meant we just stopped talking, period. I couldn't stop it from happening any more than he seemed to be able to.

And now, we're left with pieces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some clarity, I hope. Sorry for the feels. I just wrote part of them reuniting and god i am so excited to write more of this you guys uisadhl  
> in other news, i mentioned Shut Up in chapter one as like a personal inside joke but joke was apparently VERY MUCH ON ME because i cant stop listening to it and let me tell you how big of a problem it is that i have a running commentary in my mind now of "shut the fuck up she said im going fucking deaf" in every conversation BECAUSE IT'S A PROBLEM


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is sort of a bonus chapter. I originally wasn't going to write this scene, but after reviewing the next chapter, I thought you would all miss it if I only mentioned it in passing instead of writing the whole thing. So with that being said.... this is a little different, but it sets up details for the next chapters.

I probably shouldn't have come over if I'm being honest with myself. I should have known I wouldn't be myself, that they'd all notice something was off. I tried to joke around with Andrew but I felt so empty that I kind of just, stopped. Today's the anniversary of when Mom told me she was moving out, a suitcase in hand and taxi outside waiting to take her to her sister's. I was barely seven then, the whole thing a cruel lesson in love. She came around often enough for a few years, but that was the last time she pretended she wanted a part in our family. It was a little less each year. I'd barely seen her outside of holidays and birthdays by the time of the funeral, by the time she told us she was moving to Spain to be with her boyfriend and his kid. I haven't seen her since, proving the visits towards the end were more obligatory than anything. She didn't even call this year on my birthday, just sent a card. 

"You alright there?" I glance up to see Mr. Z, towel over his shoulder, palms rubbing against his jeans as he sits down at the table. I look towards Andrew's room where he's disappeared on a phone call with some girl in his class. _I'll only be a minute, I swear_ , he'd said. A minute turned into five and my mind wandered dangerously. 

I shrug. 

"Want to talk about it?" Mr. Z has a habit of casual conversations turned tense, something I learned quickly. 

"What happened to your wife?" I ask, deflecting, knowing it's probably rude but not particularly caring. He didn't seem like the type to be thrown off easily. I look up and watch his features shift towards discomfort and feel shitty. Apparently he _can_ be put off. "Sorry, you don't have to—"

"Cancer, four years ago." I look up quickly and catch his sad smile, slight shrug. 

"Jesus. I'm sorry," I shake my head, eyes catching on his ring as I remind myself asking about _that_ is too much. "Forget I asked." 

"It's alright, Sam. I can talk about it," he says, nodding at me. My eyes drift back towards Andrew's room when I hear him laugh loudly. Brandon was at a study session for math, so it was just the three of us tonight. Mr. Z was making pasta and I could smell the garlic he roasted earlier mixing with the scent of tomatoes and oregano in a deeply comforting way. 

"You miss her?" I ask quietly, avoiding his eyes. 

"What do you think?" he asks, and when I look up, his mouth is almost twisted into a smile, his eyes light. "Of course I do. You don't love someone like that and stop missing them." 

"Right, sorry—"

"Stop apologizing, Sam," he says. "I know it might seem odd but I don't mind talking about it. The boys don't like to, but you can ask me." I can tell by the look in his eyes he means it. "I need to check on the sauce but I'll be back, okay?" I think he thinks Dad is absent or something. Like I need fatherly guidance. I nod and watch him go, my mind drifting back to Mom. 

"My mom isn't really around," I tell him when he returns, though I don't know why. "She's alive, though, so…" I take a deep breath. "I don't really talk about it," I admit. "Dad doesn't either." He sits there for a minute and I think I might have made things awkward but then he nods slowly.

"I don't want to overstep, Sam. I don't ever want to step on another father's toes so please know that in saying this I mean all respect to you and your father." I sit up straighter and watch him as he takes a deep breath. "Sometimes things happen in life that we can't control, _bad_ things. And it's up to us to figure out how to cope with them. Whatever happened with your mom, whatever happened with my wife, they're out of our control." I nod, my heart skipping. It's been so long since someone's tried to talk to me about this stuff. "You have a choice, Sam. You can let what happened fester inside your chest, or you can embrace it and lean in."

"Lean in?" I ask tentatively, my voice a little shaky. Dad never has heart to hearts with me anymore (not that I ever try to have them with him either), and I'm not entirely sure how to handle this. He smiles softly and nods, though, and I know I can't escape now even if I wanted to. It's too late, he knows I want this conversation as much as he seems to want to offer it up. 

"Lean in to what you're feeling. Meaning you don't shy away from it. When it hurts, lean into the hurt and let it do what it needs to do. When it feels good, lean into that, too. I know you're young but you're not _that_ young and trust me when I say that sometimes you just need to lean in and acknowledge whatever it is that's upsetting you. Even if that means hurting a little." I think about his words for a moment and shake my head in wonder. Dad told me something similar when Mom first left, and again with Grandpa, but hadn't mentioned it since. I'd all but forgotten.

"What makes you so sure that'll help?" I ask, a bit off kilter at how easy it is to question him like this, as if his mind and my own had found some frequency to match. 

"Because it's helped me more times than I can count," he tells me, pulling the towel from his shoulder and resting it on the table. "I've had to learn that lesson the hard way more than once. I knew someone once who made it impossible to do anything _but_ lean into the pain. Don't let it consume you, I've learned that as well. But lean in and let yourself feel whatever it is you need to feel to get better. It's alright to need some time to get over things. It's alright to feel pain."

"It's been seven years," I shake my head. He looks confused when he looks at me, his expression softening quickly. 

"Maybe it's time you find some peace, then." My eyes dart to his and I hate myself more than I ever have for the tears that form against my better judgement. He smiles, but it looks sad, and I have to walk away towards the bathroom to get away from it. 

I compose myself quickly and take a few deep breaths before walking back out, thankful when I hear Andrew getting off the phone, our paths converging in the hallway. He asks if I want to play video games and I accept the offer. Anything to avoid his goddamn dad and his honesty and advice. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well?? some more oliver and sam interactions for you. next chapter elio is heavily featured


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember when I said the last chapter was originally just a line in the next chapter?? Well. Buckle up.

He startles me when he walks in from his lunch meeting, my fingers slipping on the piano keys into a dissonant sound. "Sorry, sorry," he says quickly, tossing his damp coat onto the rack and running a hand through his rain-drenched hair. I turn on the bench and bite my lip.

"Don't stop on my account," he says, walking over. He glances at the sheet music I have up--an old work in progress of his he hasn't touched in months--and I try not to turn red. I always liked the way his music sounded against the backdrop of rain in the city, and with him going silent lately, I couldn't resist. He's early; he was supposed to be gone for another half an hour and I didn’t think he'd notice. Wrong. He looks down at the keys and lifts a hand to stroke my hair. I flinch away from his touch out of habit and move to stand, ignoring him and the sheet music and regretting the movement immediately when his face falls and I feel empty. "You can finish it if you want," he says, leaning against the piano.

"It's not mine to finish," I shrug and grab some water from the kitchen to escape. When I return, he's holding the pages in his hands. I suppose I startle him, because he jumps a little and smiles sheepishly at me. " _You_ should finish it," I tell him. "It's good, it's… It's really good, Dad. Like your old stuff."

"My old stuff was messy-"

"It was emotional, there's a difference."

"Only technically," I says. I can tell he's trying to hide a smirk or smile as he puts the music back on the piano and walks towards me. I can tell a moment before it happens that something has shifted in his demeanor, some sort of spark I've been missing. Sensing his action a moment before it happens, I try to doge him. It's no use; he pulls me into a headlock that only lasts a few seconds before he ruffles my hair. I glare at him, but I can't deny it feels nice to have him back like this even if only for a moment, and I know he sees this through my gaze.

"What do you want to do for dinner?" I ask cautiously, testing the waters to see if this mood will last.

"You're not leaving?" he asks turning to look at me with a wide expression. I shrug, realizing I'd spent most nights at the Zimmerman's. "Oh, um." He shakes his head slightly. "Whatever you want, I'm not picky."

We end up ordering Chinese food and sitting on the living room floor with it, a bottle of wine he refuses to let me drink close to his side of the coffee table. He asks a lot of questions about my classes and I realize after the egg rolls are gone that I haven't exactly tried to let him into my life any more than he has with me. He asks about Carly and, when I mention her rampage in English Lit about Wuthering Heights, he laughs like he used to. The rain slows a little and it engulfs our silence. Sometimes when it rains like this, he looks out the window and I can tell he's thinking about something important, some memory I'm not privy to. He never really tells me what, though… I guess I never ask. Maybe I would have if Grandpa never died, but now it seems like asking him anything personal inevitably leads to him getting emotional and I don’t want to deal with that, can barely deal with it on my own. 

"Andrew doing well?" he asks suddenly, and I fear this will spiral into an argument faster than I can help.

"I guess," I shrug. He nods and looks at me carefully.

"You spent a lot of time with him." I can't decipher the tone of his voice but I'm not sure I like it.

"Yeah, _and_ Brandon, _and_ Carly," I say, sitting up straighter and narrowing my gaze.

"I'm not- God, not everything has to be a fight, Sam. I was just, never mind," he sighs, shaking his head. I feel guilty immediately. He sighs dramatically. "I just wanted to talk."

"Sorry," I mutter.

"You know, I just want you to be happy. That's all I want. You don't have to put up a fight every time, I'm not trying to trick you into anything," he says, staring at the floor.

"I know," I nod. I hear what he's not saying the loudest, that he's not Mom, that when he asks it's not because he wants something or feels an obligation. He takes a deep breath and then a sip of wine and I wish it wasn't so hard to just talk to him sometimes. He picks at some thread on his jeans and I watch as he overthinks something. Sometimes I forget that he's still young, that Mom had me when they were only 21, that I fucked his life up. He must regret it now.

"When I was your age, my parents used to read me stories when it rained," he says suddenly. I lean in, shoulders slumping- he doesn't talk about them much anymore. "We'd all sit together on that old couch in their villa, you know the one. We'd sit there and I'd wear his sweaters because it was always fucking cold when it rained and they'd just read to me, sometimes in English, sometimes not, whatever they were feeling. My mother would sit there and translate," and he says as he looks at me. "And I know I can't give you that, and I'm sorry. But I'm doing my best, Sam." Mom hated the villa, always said it was desolate and preferred the house in Milan, not that she ever really went on our trips with us anyway.

"Do you miss it?" I ask, avoiding his vulnerability to avoid my own. I almost regret the words as I watch his eyes fill with moisture and realize tonight we won't escape vulnerability, not even if we try. He nods and looks away, sniffles. "Dad-"

"It's alright. I'm fine." I feel like I should probably tell him I know he's trying but something stops me, I don't know what. It's like suddenly I'm incapable of talking. He clears his throat and I worry he's slipping back into that mask he wears around me to protect me from whatever it is he's feeling. Or maybe he senses his emotion triggers my own and knows I'm not ready. Either way, I watch him carefully build himself up with a few steadying breaths. I remember the other night at Andrew's. _Sometimes you just need to lean in and acknowledge whatever it is that's upsetting you._

"What else? Do you remember?" I manage. I don't know if reminiscing will help, but I also know he has no one else to talk to and I can't stop myself. It's too quiet here without him playing the piano, without him laughing, teasing me. Mr. Z's voice is ringing in my ear _lean in lean in_ and I don't know the last time Dad leaned into anything.

"Everything," he says, then laughs to himself softly. He takes a deep breath and looks up at me. After a minute, I begin to fear he's upset with me for asking, but then his face softens and he looks down at his hands.

"I want you to be happy, too," I tell him. I find my voice and take a deep breath, swallowing my pride. "I know you try. I'm sorry I'm such an asshole." He scratches his neck, his hand fisting under his chin in the way I've grown to assume is a comforting gesture for him, one I used to mimic, maybe still do on rare occasions. He looks so young. It's only in moments like this that I see the resemblance between us. I have my mother's brown eyes and her nose, but my expressions and hair and turned out emotions are all his. I need the mood to change or I'll start getting emotional, too, and that is the _last_ thing I want. Not that Dad had ever discouraged me from being emotional, just… I don't like it. Not around him. "You need friends, Dad, this is pathetic."

His eyes go wide at first and then he laughs at the abrupt change, looks up in amusement, and for a moment I can see that light in him again when he sees I'm only teasing him. "Oh? I have friends-"

"Uh, no you don't." I insist a smirk, hoping if I play along with his banter maybe he'll actually listen to what I'm saying. " _I_ have friends, you do not."

"Well we can't all stumble into record stores and find our best friends, Sammy," he says. It's a relief that his smile hasn't faded.

"Why not? You like music," I point out, nudging his leg with my foot. He shakes his head and sighs. "You just need a nudge. You would like Andrew's Dad. I can introduce you guys-- that's a start at least."

"Oh that would be great," he rolls his eyes, tilts his head. "I'm sure I'd love a guy who goes by _Mr. Z."_

"That's just what we call him," I say, shoving him. He mock-glares at me and I shrug. "I don't know his name. I'm _polite_."

"I don't need your help-"

"I really think you might," I say, my smirk faltering. He watches me for a moment in silence and it feels like the air's gone stale. He _hates_ it when I point out how lonely he looks, how much this stuff really affects him. So I usually don't. But sometimes it's too much even for me. "Look, you don't have to like him. I'm just… I don't know. Maybe if you met them you'd stop moping every time I leave--"

"I do not _mope_ ," he complains.

" _Dad._ " I cross my arms and he sighs. "You _mope_. I get it, I'm not around much anymore but…" My voice trails off when I see his eyes growing distant.

"I don't like you meddling with my life," he grumbles.

"Someone has to," I say and it makes him crack a small smile. "You never put yourself out there anymore."

"That's not true," he shakes his head.

"When was the last time you did something fun?" He's quiet. "Went on date? To the symphony? You don't do anything anymore. Grandpa would not have wanted this," I say, knowing I'm verging on dangerous territory but knowing it has to be said regardless. The words spill out of me without any conscious thought. "He would have wanted you to go live your life, not sit in here and suffer. He was always telling me that we need to appreciate life more and you're in here wasting-"

"Alright."

"-your life away!" He stares at the window and clenches his jaw. "You don't even play the piano anymore. I mean Jesus, is that really something you think he would have wanted for you?" I feel guilty only when I see the first tear slip past his defenses. "I miss him, too. But this isn't a life. You're just… _existing_."

"That's enough," he says quietly. I watch him stand and gather the empty cartons, walk to the kitchen, and then into his room without another word. Another killer conversation in the Perlman house. I roll my eyes and try not to feel too guilty this time.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are yall getting a better idea of the dynamics at play here? I love reading your commentary on them and thoughts on the relationships so much. We're getting closer...


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I need you to sit down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY LISTEN THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A THREE PARAGRAPH INTRODUCTION INTO THE NEXT CHAPTER IDK HOW ON EARTH THIS HAPPENED BUT HERE'S 2.8K OF SOMETHING I DIDN'T ANTICIPATE WRITING YET

  _Stop blaming him._

_It's not his fault, dear._

I grit my teeth and tap my pencil against my leg, eyes on the door for Dad to come home so we can go. I called my grandma when I got home and her words are still rolling around my mind. She gave me approximately one minute to catch up before starting in with _Now, Sam. I know you're not getting along with your father. Why?_

How am I supposed to explain to someone why I can't relate to Dad anymore? Am I supposed to say, _Hey Gran, you know actually things are great here. But when your husband died and my mom left we started falling apart at the fucking seams and no one seems to give a fuck anymore._ Not a chance.

I take a deep breath and check the computer for any new messages from Andrew or Carly, but the last message is still _see ya soon losers_ from Carly. She had some recital thing for orchestra tonight and while Andrew had been a hard sell on the idea, the promise of an afterparty at the school closed the deal. I check the time again and sigh, slumping down against the too soft cushions of the couch. Dad walks in a moment later, his cheeks red from the cold. "Finally. Get ready _please_ -"

"Hey son, nice to see you too. How was my day? Oh it was-"

"Okay, okay. Sorry. I just don't want to be late," I say, arms up in defeat.

"It doesn't start for another hour and a half, Sammy." He takes his coat off and hangs it up. His body shifts weight as he stares at me and my stomach turns under his examination. "What's going on?" he asks suddenly, hands stuffing into his pockets.

"Nothing."

"Sam--"

"I made some soup, I can go take it off the stove it's pretty much done-"

"Talk."

"I…" I sigh heavily. "Okay don't be mad."

"Sam," he groans.

"I _may_ have mentioned to Mr. Z that he should come tonight-"

"Oh for the love of God."

"Don't get mad!"

"Sam." He turns and walks away towards his room, palms up. There's something about his movement that feels anxious to me, as if he's not sure whether or not he should really walk out. I take advantage.

"He's a single dad! You need friends! He probably needs friends! I'm _helping_ , Grandma said I need to help--"

"She _what?"_ he turns sharply with wide eyes. "When did you talk to my mother?"

"Today."

"She said to _help_ , help with _what_?" I stare at him longer than necessary probably, but there's something in his eyes that I've never seen there before and I'm not entirely sure what to make of it. He chews the corner of his lip and starts fidgeting but doesn't back down.

"She just said that you're probably lonely and-"

"Oh my _god_."

" _and-"_

"Please stop."

"-maybe if you put yourself out there it would be better!"

"Sam," he groans, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. I really think he's being dramatic. I mean Jesus Christ who's the teenager anyway? "She thinks you're... Never mind. I'm going to go get ready."

"Wait! What, she thinks what?" I ask quickly, standing so fast I nearly tip over trying to walk over to him. He looks pained. Moments pass and I start to lose patience. Typical. Shutting me out again.

"I need you to sit down." His eyes are still closed, but his shoulders slump. The mood shifts immediately and my stomach drops.

"Dad?"

"Okay. I need to tell you something. I need you to not freak out." _Not_ freak out? With lead up like _that?_ Is he _kidding?_ I sit down patiently on my hands and try to contain the nerves that suddenly bubble up. He starts pacing and then sits down at the piano bench. I watch as his hands settle on the keys, his narrow shoulders rising and falling. Suddenly, I'm seven years old again. He puts me down in the living room of our old apartment as I dry my tears with multicolored mittens and he wanders over to the piano and sits at the bench. I go over to him and he sits me down next to him and stares at the keys as he tries to explain why Mom wouldn't be picking me up from school anymore.

"When I was 17 I met someone who changed my life," he says, shaking the memory from my mind and propelling me into his. "I fell in love pretty hard, faster than I ever have before or after." I swallow and watch his hands lift to the keys, tracing them for some comfort. My heart starts racing. Did I have a sibling or something?  "It was fleeting. But it helped me realize, or maybe just accept, something important about myself. Sam…" He turns so he's halfway facing me and the piano, his eyes on the floor. "I…"

"Dad, whatever it is, just say it." My palms are sweating.

"I… like women." I stare at him and know my eyes must narrow because this makes no sense. No shit, same here. What's he getting at? " _And_ men." Oh.

_Oh._

My body goes numb and my eyes wander from him as it starts to sink in. I try to get my mind to process but it's not really working and I know I'm too quiet but I can't really figure out what you're supposed to say in a situation like this.

"My mom thinks you're trying to set me up," he sighs. "On a date."

"Oh," I nod, swallow hard. He watches me, I know he does, I can feel his eyes. I don't have any gay friends. Or maybe I do and don't know, and he's not _gay_ he's… bisexual. Right? That's the word. That's fine. That's absolutely fine. I don't care. It's just different. "So…"

"She thinks you want me to date Andrew's dad." I glance over at him and note the stress in his expression. My mind floods with images of his friends from over the years and starts dissecting his interactions, could one of them been a boyfriend, he never dated after Mom but that was _women_ and maybe he went back to guys after that fucking disaster of a relationship or maybe he just didn't like anyone or- "I can hear you thinking from over here." I look back at him and take a deep breath. "Go ahead, ask whatever it is you want to know," he nods, hands folding in his lap.

"How many guys-- wait please don't tell me that. Never mind." He chuckles suddenly and I feel a bit nauseous but he doesn't look so anxious anymore and that makes me feel better. "Um…"

"It's pretty limited experience, bud." He's never called me bud. Oh my god this is weird are we the type of father son duo that talks about sex and calls each other _bud_ now I can't handle this holy shit he's been with guys that's what this means doesn’t it I _do not_ need that image- "Relax," he says softly. I nod and let out a breath I'd been holding.

"Why didn't you ever tell me?" I ask, eyes lifting to his as I steady my mind. He shrugs.

"I wasn't dating, it didn't seem like the time. I don't know. I never really…" I can tell he's searching for words. "I've only come out to a few people, Sam. My parents always just knew, so it was never a thing, we just talked about it on a case to case basis. I guess I just didn't know how to tell you."

"I don't care, you know. Just… I don't want to… like. Hear about… _it_. Or anyone, actually, I just. If you're _doing it_ I don't want to know. Guy or Girl. Just. I don't need to know." He laughs a little and I feel my cheeks heat up, but so are his.

"Noted."

"So… I wasn't trying to set you up with Andrew's dad."

"I know," he says.

"Okay… I just wanted to make sure we were on the same page there," I say, nodding. It's fine, totally normal perfectly fine. I take a few deep breaths and realize it _actually is_ fine, that it doesn't actually change anything really. I guess. I mean I guess things would be different if he was dating a guy but…then again maybe it would just be different if he was dating someone _period._ I look back at him. His eyes seem lighter somehow and it settles in my mind that he's still my dad, that nothing's changed except now he can be honest, a thought that gives me heartburn. "Wow. Okay. So wait, you haven't dated _anyone_ since Mom?"

"You would have known if it was serious."

"Okay, but not even behind my back? Like casually? You like everyone, that's a lot of people to ignore, no wonder Grandma worries… That's like… a long time to go, Dad."

"I thought you didn't want to talk about that?" he smirks.

"Uh, yeah you're right. Definitely not talking about it."

He laughs again and scratches his neck. "I don't like _everyone_ you know. _"_ I nod and feel a little guilty at my generalization. I can't ignore how nice it is to see him let go of some of whatever's been stressing him out. He takes a deep breath and I watch him stare at the floor. It seems like for the first time in months that I've seen him look normal again, like he's not trying to be brave or whatever. If I didn't know about that, what else didn't I know? Suddenly, I look at him and see him, not as the man who's raised me practically on his own, but as everything he is aside from the identity he's assumed as Father. I remember Grandpa teasing him about his youth, about his recklessness and overeager mind. I remember Mom getting shitfaced once and telling me about the night they met, that he'd won her over with his dance moves and quick wit. His old mentor I've met on a number of occasions telling me he's a force to be reckoned with when he's given something to prove and a grand piano. I look at him and see the tired nights he stayed up reading books he couldn't put down, the sheet music he'd crumple up and then smooth out to re-examine, I see the wine glasses in the sink after stressful days at work and the hesitancy in his confidence at parent-teacher nights and the way the he keeps certain things of his father's around and how he's always been a little afraid of walking too close to the line of "Friend" with me because I have no one else to turn to for guidance and he doesn't want to fuck up, I see the nights he's probably cancelled plans and the people he didn't get to see because of me, all the times I've teased him about not dating or yelled at him for invading my privacy or pushed him away when he prodded for information-

"Dad," I say, my voice shaking. He looks up in alarm at the sound.

Here's the thing. My mom is anything but emotional. She'd run her fingers through my hair or pat my shoulder, sometimes would hug me, but was pretty solid on the emotional distance she created between herself and the rest of us. It didn't occur to me until after she left that it was because she'd been cheating on Dad and we'd become the "other" family in her mind despite being the original. Dad was always a little different, though, and I think she resented him for it. I was brought up on warring values from the two of them, Mom wanting me to _grow up and be a man_ , Dad fighting her on it constantly. This feels like a puzzle piece falling into place. Him encouraging me to pursue whatever I wanted in terms of the arts or sports, him telling Mom to let me be who I wanted to be, him telling me after she left that it's okay to cry about it, that I didn't need to stop myself, that crying wouldn't make me any less of a man. The way he'd always asked about crushes and how now that I think about it he didn't gender the question, never forcing me to adhere to any sort of stigma or traditional stereotype.

Grandpa used to say I reminded him a lot of Dad when he was little, that he was just as rambunctious and free-spirited. I used to fight it like an accusation. He stares at me and I can see him worry from across the room at my silence, and I think about every day I pushed him away out of frustration for things he couldn't change, when he probably didn't have anyone to turn to either. When he'd kept a part of himself locked up. How many stories were there of his life that defined him that he'd just never mentioned because of this? 

"I'm sorry," I mutter. His face breaks and softens and he stands to walk over to me, my eyes watering. I hate crying, especially in front of him. It's not that I think it makes me look weak or anything but. I think it kind of makes me look weak. Just kind of, even though _I know_ it doesn't. I just don't _enjoy_ crying. And yet I can't stop myself when it all sinks in that he's all I have and he didn't feel comfortable telling me this huge thing until now, until he was practically forced to, and how I keep shit from him all the time and how he used to be _so close_ to his own parents that they just knew he liked guys and I bet he couldn't even name a single one of my teachers because I don't tell him shit and how much I'm missing out on because our relationship isn't what his was with his parents and how I'm jealous of Andrew's relationship with his dad when I probably could have had that myself all along.

He pulls me into his arms and rests his head against mine, and I force myself to stop caring about being tough and just enjoy it for what it is because I know if I don't let him hug me now, he won't try again. "Samuel, you have nothing to apologize for."

"I'm a shitty son," I cry, pinching my own arm when my voice cracks and regretting it because isn't that the fucking point? Isn't being honest and emotional the whole goddamn point of this hug? Isn't that what I'm supposed to do?

"No, no no. No, you're not. Stop it. I love you so much," he says, rubbing my back.

"I'm an asshole."

"You're a teenager, you're allowed to be moody." I take a deep breath and find myself measuring my breathing against his. For a while, we just sit there together and I find myself wondering if I should stop, walk away, push him to get ready, but I feel stuck. I feel like a little kid and he's comforting me from a scraped knee or something. "You are the most important thing in my life, Sam. I know it's not always been easy for us-"

"No, it's okay." I interrupt. Usually I allow him to continue with his little personal guilt trip but it feels cruel now. "I know you try. I wouldn't want it any other way," I admit, thinking of the alternative, of the possibility of having Mom back or us having moved to Italy when Grandpa died. This is the only reality I want.

When he finally pulls away from me, he smiles warmly and pats my shoulder. "You're really growing up," he muses, a fake punch to my shoulder. I shrug and smile at this fond side of him I used to see all the time. Maybe he'd always shown it and I'd just been putting up walls against it. He leaves to get ready and I get dinner on the table for us before we have to leave, and for the first time in what feels like a long time, we actually talk about things that matter and stop tiptoeing around each other. He doesn't shy from asking if I miss Mom and I don't shy from asking him about Grandpa. And it's fucking _draining_ but it feels good.

Before we leave, he grabs my shoulder to turn me towards him with a slight nod. "I love you, Sam," he says with so much sincerity it almost makes me uncomfortable.

"I love you, too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .... um.... okay remember this is 2001 and it was a DIFFERENT time alright and tbh I could have made sam's reaction really shitty but he's a good kid so he's just overwhelmed instead of grossed out or offended or something. But uhhhhhh..... yeah..... i hesitate to ask for thoughts lmfao
> 
> AGAIN CAN'T STRESS ENOUGH! Sam is an unreliable narrator! Elio is for the most part the Elio we know and love still. Sam just sees him differently and this is in a way a step towards him seeing him more clearly.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You have a son?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh gooodddddddd i have rewritten this and rewritten this and rewritten this and im kind of nervous to enter into this part of the story tbh. the truth is, when I started this, I had a clear idea of what I wanted to happen, in terms of /how/ i wanted to write it, not necessarily content.. A very clear idea. And now we're here and I'm so excited. So let me say this...I've got a few tricks up my sleeve. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's been reading since day one, to those who just found this fic, and to those who joined in along the way. I love you guys. Here we go.

"They were really good," Dad says and I look at him, gaze narrowing. "Really," he laughs. "It was very nice." I anticipate him picking out the violin that came in a beat too early in the third measure, or the way the cellists were slightly off balance in one of the melodies, but he's kind. He's got a killer ear and I know he picked up on it, too, but his tendency to support young musicians shines through, I guess.

We walk into the "party" area, which is really just a waiting area of sorts near the auditorium in the school. There's a cash bar set up on one side and a collection of snacks and sodas for students nearby. It's already somewhat crowded, but I have high hopes of finding my friends. After all, I'd only recognized a few people during the performance, so finding them in a crowd shouldn't be _too_ difficult. We spy Carly first and congratulate her. Dad tries to hide his smile when she mentions the "damn eager violinist" and how they were going to be yelled at in class next week for it. She seems happy though, like she always does after a performance or gig. She spots another friend and gives us each a hug before running off.

"She sure is in a good mood," Dad muses. I glance at him and he shrugs. "She's been off a lot lately. You haven't noticed?"

"No, I have… I didn't realize you paid attention," I admit.

"She's like family," he shrugs, rubbing my shoulder with a small smile. "Of course—"

"Sam!" I glance over at the sound of Andrew's voice and smile as he and Brandon come into view.

"Hey! Where's Mr.—"

The sound of glass shattering cuts me off. I follow the sound and see Mr. Z, his shoes now covered in red wine, eyes wide.

" _Zimmerman_ ," Dad whispers. My head whips around to look at him and see his eyes glued to Mr. Z's, his chest rising and falling quickly. If dizzy had an external appearance, I'd say he looked like that. His body swayed almost and I could see him swallow, his eyes blink a few times rapidly. I've seen him panic before, but it had been awhile since I'd seen him off balance like this. It's a little unsettling—he didn't even look like this earlier when he came out to me.

"Dad?" I ask tentatively, my mind beginning to race though no clear thoughts emerge except an overall hazy mess of confusion.

"You have a _son?!"_ I nearly jump at the sound of Mr. Z's voice stronger and more forceful than I'm used to. My eyes follow the sound and see a similar unsettled look on his face. Andrew catches my attention and raises his eyebrows, but I can only shrug in response. Brandon looks curious, but not terribly shocked, much to _my_ surprise.

I look back at Dad, at his wide eyes and quick breath. His gaze looks glazed, eyes phased in and out of focus. I've seen that look before. "Dad?" I repeat, softer to bring him back. His eyes focus on me, _panicked._ He swallows hard and I take a tentative step towards him, my heart racing at full speed now. In all the jumbled thought in my head one thing rings over and over: He knew Andrew's dad. _Knows_ him. Knows his _name_. My mind starts clearing until what must be the truth begins to emerge.

I don't know how I know to anticipate it, but I do, glancing around the room for napkins a moment before blood begins running from his nose. His hands cover his face quickly and he staggers back, avoiding me and everyone else as he looks for an exit and heads towards it faster than I can reach him with a paper napkin. I start to follow but stop when a hand tightens around my bicep. "Let me," Mr. Z says, his feet already taking him off towards Dad. I watch him go, body numb, heart beating so fast it could run a marathon _._ I know I should go after them, but I'm too damn shocked to do anything but stand there and stare at the door they've disappeared behind.

"What the fuck just happened?" Andrew asks after a second. I take a deep breath and sort through the thoughts threatening to break free. They know each other. They _know_ each other. Jesus Christ, what reason could my father have for knowing someone and not telling him about being a father other than _—no,_ the only reason my mind is going _there_ is because he _just_ told me he likes men. I'd have caught it if it was true. Mr. Z would have recognized me as his son, surely, even if he didn't know—I look enough like him, he'd at least wonder. But it has to be, can't possibly be anything else, how could he know their last name by looking at him, why would he panic so much that his nose would bleed, why the _fuck_ would Mr. Z say "let me" if he hadn't taken care of it before? Why would he not look phased, not even ask what happened? I can't feel my hands anymore but I'm pretty sure they're shaking because there is exactly _one_ reason I can think of for my Dad to be so affected by seeing someone. _I wasn't dating, it wasn't the time._ I realize now he'd used the past tense. And he felt it was time for me to know _now_. God was he dating Andrew's Dad? Jesus Christ! But he isn't gay—right? Would I even know, I mean I didn't know about Dad so who the hell else—

" _Yo_ , earth to Sam?" I get myself together and look at Andrew's skeptical expression. "Did you know they knew each other?" he asks. I shake my head and glance back towards the door.

"Did _you?"_ he asks Brandon, who just shrugs.

Someone comes up with a damp towel and cleans up the wine before asking where "that guy" went and if he needs help. I tell them he's fine and is dealing with it himself. I try not to count seconds as time passes and they don't return. Oh my god. "Sam, seriously. Are you okay?"

"Huh? Yeah, fine," I shrug off.

"Is he like… _sick_?" I look over at Brandon after he asks and remember what Mr. Z said about their mom— _cancer_. I wonder if their mom used to have nosebleeds, if that was even a thing. If seeing my dad like that brought back memories. I feel nauseous.

"He's okay," I tell him. "It happens sometimes, change in the weather or something." It's not entirely false, but I know this isn't because of the recent temperature drop. It rarely is.

"Are you sure? I mean, it's been awhile…" Andrew asks.

"He's probably just cleaning up," I say, my stomach lurching. I just want to know, I just want answers. 

"God, that's so crazy. Do you think they knew we were friends?" I sigh and look at Andrew. He's pretty cool usually, but right now I really wish he'd shut the fuck up. 

"I don't know, Andrew. Judging by the wine stain on the floor I'd say no." I turn and start walking away towards the actual exit to get some air, hoping he doesn't follow.

"Dude, what the hell's wrong with you?" he asks, trailing behind. I contemplate the likelihood of being able to ignore him, but he's too fast. He steps in front of me and shoves me hard. "Seriously! What's going on?"

"Andrew," Brandon calls out, but his brother ignores him and shoves me again.

"I don't fucking know!" I shout, surprising even myself as I push back. "I don't _know_ , Andrew." My eyes dart back to the side door against my better judgement. I close my eyes momentarily and take a deep breath. "I'm trying to figure out how they know each other," I tell him, hoping it settles his curiosity. Brandon catches up and stands with us, biting his lip.

"Oh," Andrew nods slowly, eyeing me, unsure.

Suddenly, the side door opens and Dad walks out. I can see him looking around the room for me but can't find the strength to call out to him. Instead, I watch as Mr. Z walks out after him looking even more out of it than Dad. He looks at Dad and says something, but Dad just turns to look and him for like half a second and walks away. It's starting to really annoy me how familiar I’ve grown to find the way my stomach churns.

"Come on," Dad says when he's close enough to me, gesturing to the door. I start walking with him to avoid the eyes of everyone else, but feel a little like a chipped mirror, ready to fully shatter with the slightest disturbance.

"Dad," I mutter when the cool night air hits us. "Is—"

"I don't want to talk about it," he says. I stop walking in quiet rebellion and cross my arms when he realizes and turns to look at me, exhaustion all over his face. "Sam, please. I want to go home."

"You haven't gotten a nosebleed in years, Dad." He looks up to the sky and sighs. "Who is he?"

"Can we talk about this at home?" he asks quietly, looking back at me.

"Are you dating him?"

" _What?"_ I stare at him and refuse to backdown. I need to know, if they are I just need to know. As soon as possible. Like a Band-Aid. "No, Sam. I'm not," he sighs after it becomes apparent I have no intention of taking it back. I let out a deep breath and nod. I thought the answer would help more, but it just leaves me more confused.

"Then—"

" _Please_ ," he says, voice tense. "I'll tell you at home." I look him over and realize his hands are in fists at his sides, shoulders slumped, upper lip tinted with the effects of his nosebleed. He looks tired and run down. Whoever Mr. Z is to him, one conversation has completely drained all energy from his body.

"Okay," I say, walking towards him. We fall in step together but he hails a cab less than a block into our walk. I start to worry for real and wonder if it's something bad that he's not telling me, if Mr. Z is something bad in his life. I pat his leg in the cab— it's all I can think to do. He sighs and tells me he's sorry for ruining the night. He doesn't seem to listen when I tell him it's okay.

We walk into the apartment and he throws his keys on the counter of the kitchen and grabs some wine before turning to face me.

"You might want to sit down."

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnnd we're back! If you haven't read Vindicated and For You To Notice, I'd suggest you read those. They aren't absolutely necessary to this story, but they're fun little add-ins. Thank you to everyone who's been supporting this story from the ground up!

_"You might want to sit down."_

He leans against the kitchen counter and waits for me to move before he says anything else. I sit down on the couch and can't help the way my mind races back to the last heart to heart we had—was that only hours ago, or lifetimes? I'm overwhelmed by the feeling of deja vu.

"You asked me if I was dating him," he says suddenly. God, I knew it. He lied, that had to have been it. Maybe they just broke up or something, but then how would I have never noticed he was seeing someone? Guilt turns my stomach as I realize I haven't exactly paid much attention to him or his life lately. Maybe I wouldn't have noticed. He seems to see the way my mind works because he his hands lift in surrender and he says, "I'm not, I wasn't lying. But…" I shift on the couch.

"Do I really need to know?" I ask him, feeling a little uneasy. I thought I wanted to know, but the longer he drags this out, the more uncertain I become. What if I didn't like the answer, what if it changed how I looked at Mr. Z?

"I think you do," he nods. "After everything today…I wouldn't insist on telling you if I thought you didn't need to know, Sam. Trust me." He walks over to the bookshelves near me and pulls out a book, flipping through the pages. He seems different somehow, like he's letting me in on some secret life he's lived. "I hated him when I first met him," he says quietly, still looking at the book. I try to get a better look at it, but his body blocks my view. I give up and lean back against the couch and wait for him to continue. "Well, I don't know if I did. I thought I did, but perhaps it was all a ruse even then." He turns to look at me and I barely recognize him, the curve of his lips, the way his shoulders roll in makes him look younger, the look in his eyes one I'm not sure I've ever seen. "He had this habit of making me crazy, so maybe my memory just plays him off as the bad guy in the beginning." He looks back down at the book and I finally see the cover, something Greek I think. It looks vaguely familiar, and it takes a solid minute for me to realize why. I've seen it at Andrew's, I'm sure of it. Mr. Z is a classics professor, I think. Maybe they met at the university, but I don't think they work at the same one. My mind spins around the text on the cover until he breaks the silence.

"I was seventeen." My eyes dart up to his. Seventeen? _Seventeen?_ Jesus Christ, I don't even have time to process because he puts the book on the coffee table and sits down at the other side of the couch. _Oliver Zimmerman_ , the books says. It's his book. My dad has his book. Because he's known him since he was seventeen. I look back up at him and try to keep my face neutral. "He came to my family's villa in Italy as one of our summer guests. He was writing his first book. I'd never met anyone like him before." I remember something he told me earlier that I'd brushed off, something about meeting someone at seventeen who changed his life, a person he fell in love with. _Oh my god_. My dad is about to tell me the story of his goddamn sexual awakening with my best friend's _dad._ I stand and start pacing, my chest tightening. This isn't happening. Of all the people in this goddamn city, I find the _one_ person who's a kid of the _one_ guy my dad's—

"Sam?"

"Are you about to tell me _he's_ the guy you mentioned earlier because I swear to god Dad, I can only take so much in one day." My voice is shaky and I regret the words as soon as they leave my mouth because his face falls and I know it's my fault and I should be glad he's at least being honest with me finally but this is my _best friend's dad_ we're talking about and I don't know how to handle this information because my dad has _never mentioned him_ and he talks about Grandpa's guests all the fucking time which means this one was different and I mean, I get it, he clearly was, but—

"Sam, breathe," he says, pulling me from my thoughts. I look back at him and stop pacing, only to find him staring at his hands.

"Sorry, sorry." I take a deep breath and sit back down, forcing my mind to focus on what he says instead of jumping to conclusions that do nothing but make me anxious. "It's just a lot," I mutter. "I mean… God." I can't stop my hands from shaking and I have no idea why. 24 hours ago I thought my dad was straight and had high hopes Mr. Z would be some, I don't know, _bright_ spot in our lives if I could just introduce them. If only they met, I'd thought. If only I could get them to talk, surely they'd be friends, surely he'd listen to Dad's problems and make it better like he did with me. Jesus. "Sorry, I don't mean to be rude. It's okay if he is that guy. I just… need a minute."

"I know," he nods. "Listen, I really wouldn't tell you if I thought you could get away with not knowing, okay? But _because_ you're so close to that family, I think you deserve to hear it from me." I nod and swallow hard, making the conscious choice to be open minded. I look back at him and take another deep breath.

"So you… fell in love?" I ask quietly, trying to get it over with and out there in the open. He'd said it earlier, but now that I know who the guys was it feels different. Important. He watches me carefully for a moment.

"Yes," he admits.

"And…" It occurs to me suddenly that he's said nothing about Mr. Z returning any feelings. In fact, he's been pretty damn careful to only talk about himself and his feelings. Judging by Mr. Z's reaction earlier, it makes sense that he felt something, too… but I can't be certain. I don't want to know, I really don't want to know. But at the same time, I can't go back to that house not knowing. He's right, I need the story. "Did he love you?" I ask.

"I like to think so," he says with a small smile.

"You _think_ so?"

"We never said it, but," he shakes his head and looks down. "He knew how I felt. I think I know how he felt." I mean to say something, but before I can open my mouth, a wave of emotion washes over his face and I'm stunned to silence. I haven't seen him this vulnerable since… god, since the last time we were in Italy. Not even earlier today. "It was only a few weeks, then he was gone. At first, we tried to keep in contact. He came to visit once. There were letters, a few phone calls… it was never enough and I knew I couldn't… We lost touch after he got married, I haven't—I haven't heard from him since before Andrew was born." He sniffles and looks away from me, his jaw clenching.

I want to know what happened, if it ended because he left or because it fell apart, if he was engaged when he met Dad, if Dad even knew, if Grandpa and Grandma knew, and a million other things. But I can tell he's trying not to cry—he's doing that thing I do where he pinches the edge of his jaw and takes too-deep breathes to control it—and I feel like shit for wanting to push when he's clearly caught up in something. I let him settle before even thinking about talking, knowing he'd give me the same curtesy. It had been a hell of a day for me, but all I had to do all day was listen. He was the one opening himself up over and over again. If I'm going to be serious about being a better son, then letting him take his time feels pretty damn important.

"It didn't end poorly, if anything it just ended prematurely," he offers, his voice a little clearer. "He left and returned to his life in America and I tried to forget about him. After some time, I healed a bit. I moved on with your mom, he moved on with his wife. I tried to reach out a few times, but my letters were either returned or never answered, so I… He talked to Grandpa often, so I knew he was doing well."

"You never tried to find him? Wouldn't Grandpa have known—"

"No, no it… that wasn't an option," he says, shaking his head. "It wouldn't have done any good."

"How do you know that?" I ask. They were clearly still affected by whatever they had all those years ago, why would they just ignore that?

"He was in love with someone else, Sam. And for a while, so was I. What would seeing him have done for our relationships?" I swallow and look away. "Either we'd see each other and it would still be there, in which case our lives would have been ruined. Or we'd see each other and feel nothing and I, I couldn't deal with that either. No one would have won, Sam." I nod and try to force away the ache in my chest on his behalf. I'd never felt anything close to love for someone, I couldn't even begin to relate.

"Earlier, your nose bled," I start. He sighs and runs a hand over his hair, a telltale sign I'm about to give him a headache. "You were anxious."

"I hadn't seen him in so long, Sam. It caught me off guard."

"But he followed you…" Dad looks back at me steadily. "What happened?"

"Nothing," he shakes his head. I try to decide whether he looks sad or tired or just bored with me. I don't think it's boredom, but maybe tiredness.

"Nothing happened?" I ask. For some reason I don't believe him.

"Sam," he sighs, covering his face. "I was bleeding, we barely spoke. I know this is a lot for you. I didn't anticipate seeing him tonight, or ever, really. We were both just shocked, is all."

"But there was something there," I say. I can tell he's about to protest, so I cut him off. "Don't bullshit me, Dad. I saw the way you looked at each other. And now you're both single—"

"No."

"Dad—"

"Sam, _no._ " I stare at him and refuse to backdown as he sets his jaw. This is bullshit. I might not have the best judgment or any experience with this stuff, but a blind man could see something was still there.

"He still—"

"Please drop it—"

"This is crazy! Did you _see_ the way he looked at you?!"

"Samuel, this is not your place—"

"But—"

"I said _no_." My hands fist at my sides as he stares back at me, refusing to backdown. I don't get it. I mean, okay, to be fair the thought of them being together made me genuinely nauseous like, 20 minutes ago. But that was before I realized how much this meant to him. He's been through so much shit, I don't get why he won't just let himself have this one thing.

"You'd rather die alone than take a chance with someone who _clearly_ still means something to you? What kind of role model is that?"

" _Sam!_ "

"This is bullshit," I mutter, standing to go to my room, but he stops me.

"It's more complicated than you think," he says. "This isn't about taking a chance. You don't know the half of it."

He's wearing a mask, that much is easy to see. I fucking _hate_ it when he does this, puts on a show to hide how he's really feeling. It's so goddamn obvious. He's hurt and he's trying to hide how freaked out he is after tonight, I can see that much. And maybe for what it's worth, he's right. I don't know what happened, back then or since, but if this defensive reaction is anything to go by, or the desperation I saw in Mr. Z's eyes, then there's something there whether Dad wants to admit it or not. 

"Fine," I mutter. "I'll drop it." I push past him and go into my room, wondering if Andrew and Brandon were having a similar conversation with their dad right now. I throw on some music to calm myself down and try to process everything that's happened. The thing is, even the first day I met Mr. Z, I had a feeling he and Dad would get along great. I think maybe I gravitated to him because he reminded me of how Dad used to be before everything got so complicated and dark.  I remember Grandma holding a bouquet of flowers at the funeral and telling me it was from his favorite guest, someone almost like a son, and how Dad had turned away at her words. It had to have been him, right? If my grandpa talked to him so frequently, thought of him like a _son_ , and Mr. Z was that distraught over not knowing about me, almost like it was a betrayal even, and my dad was _still_ choked up over the time they spent together after all these years, then why the fuck am I the only one who sees this for what it is?

I lay back in bed to stare up at the ceiling and start to formulate a plan.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's the deal. I'm not sure how much of E/O's perspectives you guys want. Do you want all of them? Just when they're together? Idk, idk. Still trying to figure out the semantics of writing three stories in the same timeline.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyy I'm back. I've been writing a lot of charmie for ficmas but missed this story too much to avoid it any longer. I'm sooo excited for the next part of this story, you guys. I figured out how I want to proceed logistically and am really excited to bring all of you on what is about to be an even more wild ride.

I can't lie and say I'm not nervous as hell walking up to their door, but I'm also too stubborn not to try to do something about this situation. I mean, come on, how often do you get the chance to reunite people like this? I knew I had to tiptoe around Dad a little now because his heart is practically breaking all over again, but here I could test the waters and figure out if I stood a chance at getting them back together. I know before I leave I have to have a few answers before I can actually try to do anything, so I mentally make a list.

  1. Figure out what Andrew and Brandon know
  2. Establish Mr. Z still has feelings
  3. Find an excuse to get them to meet face to face



I knock on the door and bounce on my feet, shift my backpack on my shoulder. The door opens and Mr. Z, _Oliver_ , opens the door. "Hey, Sam," he smiles, voice and stance a bit guarded if you ask me.

"Hey," I nod, trying to decide if it would make things better or worse if I called him by his first name just to show him I knew. He looks nervous, though. I take pity. "Can I come in?" I ask, smiling to put him at ease. He's so much like Dad, it's crazy.

"Yes, of course. Come on in. The boys are doing homework, want something to drink?" I shrug and sling my bag off my shoulder as I walk, tossing it on the kitchen table as the guys say hi. Mr. Z brings me a glass of water and puts a bowl of chips on the table before retreating to the living room where he's working on something, a few folders and books scattered around the coffee table.

"Why didn't you come over yesterday?" Brandon asks, glancing up from his work. I stare at him for a second and try to figure out if he knows. His eyes skip over to his brother's and back to mine, eyebrows raised. He looks a little nervous. Maybe Mr. Z told them, maybe we all know.

"I was way busy. Had an essay," I shrug. Brandon glances behind his shoulder at his dad and back at me with a nod. Oh my god, he definitely knows! I try to telepathically ask him, to tell him I know, too, but he won't look at me.

"Well, we got a new video game. You have to try it," Andrew says, oblivious to the looks being exchanged all around him. I wonder if Mr. Z got them a game to make up for the conversation. Maybe they flipped out and he bought it to smooth things over, or maybe he didn't tell them at all and got it to distract them or… My mind races with the possibilities, but Andrew still seems like he's either better at hiding this than the rest of us, or he doesn't know. I can't get a read on him.

"Yeah, for sure," I nod, looking back at Mr. Z to see him tapping his pen against the table. It doesn't look like he's actually doing anything, but he's nervous. I must make him nervous, he's probably still wondering if Dad told me anything. A few minutes pass and he seems to give up on whatever it is he's pretending to do. He walks back over to the kitchen and smiles tightly at me as he passes. Oh man, I feel torn. On one hand, the fact that he's so nervous around me is a little exhilarating, but I also feel bad for the guy. His whole life was probably just tipped over, just like Dad's. If he _didn't_ tell his sons, then he's alone in his battle. At least Dad has me to talk to if he needs to. I look at Andrew and Brandon and hope he told them. He stares at the counter for a long moment and I can practically hear him thinking about it, wondering what I know. If his kids weren't here, I'd just tell him. I'd say _hey, my dad told me everything and he's still in love with you, so get your head out of your ass_. But I know I can't say any of that because I don't even know for sure if Mr. Z still feels it, too. I can guess, but I can't proceed until I know for sure.

"Hey, I was wondering actually if I could stay for dinner? Dad's got this thing tonight so I don't have any plans." _Bingo_. Mr. Z straightens his back _just_ a little and he looks at the counter, his fingers resting against the edge of it.

"Sure," he nods, looking over at me after a second. He makes a smooth recovery, but I've seen enough to know he's wondering how much I know. I feel like I can push it a little to test the waters, see if he really does still feel it, if he'll slip up. I lean back in my chair and glance at his kids then back at him.

"He said it was nice to see you," I say, biting back a smirk when his gaze lifts to the ceiling, a pretty convincing smile coming over him when he looks back at me. He's still a goner, I'm sure of it. Check it off the list, I think.

"It's always nice to run into an old friend," he nods.

"Yeah, I bet." He stares at me and if I wasn't watching so closely, I'd probably miss the split second where his smile falters. Again, I feel torn. I feel terrible knowing that they're both clearly going through some dark shit, but it's also a good thing that he seems to have this kind of reaction. It means he probably still feels it, too. And if he feels it, too, then I can help them see that they both want this.

"Pizza good?" he asks, changing the subject.

"Hell yeah," Andrew chimes in.

"Language," Mr. Z says, his body relaxing as he turns to grab the phone off the receiver to call the order in. Andrew tells me I have to go see the video game, so I follow into his room and try to formulate a plan now that I know Mr. Z doesn't seem to have told his sons, or at least not Andrew, who is completely oblivious to what I'm doing. Brandon seems to be in the loop, if only a little. He keeps eyeing me like he knows I'm up to something, anyway. Once we're alone, Andrew shuts the door and turns on me, though.

"Alright, spill. What do you know?" he asks. My eyes get wide and I look over at Brandon who seems just as blindsided. "Someone knows something, and I want to know what's going on."

"About…"

"About our dads."

"Right," I nod. "Well…" I couldn't out them… could I? Would that be wrong if he didn't already know? I glance at Brandon and see him staring at the wall. "My dad said your dad studied with _his_ dad when they were younger." Maybe that's good. It's probably enough to at least test the waters and see if either of them is hiding something they've found out. "In Italy," I add for clarity.

"That's what Dad said," Andrew nods. "They were weird when they saw each other, right? I didn't imagine them being weird?"

"No, it was definitely weird," I nod, feeling like this is safe territory.

"I wonder what happened. Like maybe they hated each other," he muses, looking at Brandon. "You talk to Dad. Did he say anything?"

"No, just that they were old friends," he says. His hands twitch and it pulls my focus. He's fidgety. He knows something. Good, if he knows then I can bounce ideas off of him.

"Something must have happened," Andrew mutters. Suddenly, I have an idea. Even if they _don't_ know, I can still get them to help _me_ figure out how to fix this.

"Why don't we figure out what happened?" I suggest. Brandon looks at me quickly, his eyes narrowing. "I mean," I look back at Andrew. "They're old friends and they haven't talked in forever, right? There's got to be a story." I feel a little guilty again. I know mysteries are Andrew's weakness.

"Yes! Yes, let's do it." Andrew seems excited as he walks over to his desk to grab a notebook. "Okay, we need a plan. How are we going to get them to talk?"

"Ever think if they haven't told us, they might not want us to know?" Brandon says. Andrew stares at him and straightens his back when he doesn't back down.

"Shut up, how bad could it be? Come on, are you in or not?"

"I guess I'm in," he rolls his eyes.

"Sam?"

"I'm in," I nod. Getting them to work with me might be my best shot at getting our Dads to talk face to face again. "We need to be careful, though. If they suspect anything it won't work."

"Right, right. That's why we need the plan," Andrew nods. I'm glad suddenly that my friend is so enthusiastic about mysteries. It'll make this a lot easier and, honestly, a lot more fun.

"Andrew! Come clean up," we hear through the door. "You left your stuff everywhere," Mr. Z says, opening the door just a few inches. "Before dinner, please."

"Fine," he rolls his eyes, shielding his notebook (though it's empty) from view. "Be back in a minute. Don't you dare start brainstorming without me." He disappears, but leaves the door wide open. I look back at Brandon and take a deep breath. Now or never, I guess. I have to know what they know.

"You know about them," he says before I have the chance to say anything. I look at him for a second, surprised, and determine he is in fact talking about what I think he's talking about.

"Yeah, I know," I nod.

" _Everything_?"

"More than I need to, probably," I say, laughing a little.

"Yeah, me, too. _He_ doesn't know anything, clearly," he rolls his eyes, but relaxes visibly now that we're being honest. "He can't, either. Dad has to tell him."

"Yeah, I agree. I wouldn't want to learn about this from anyone but my dad."

"So… you want to get them back together, don't you?" I nod and smirk, grateful we're on the same page. "Me, too. Dad's been so sentimental lately. You know, Andrew's going to lose it when he realizes what we're doing."

"Will he not be okay with them?" I ask, suddenly worried at the prospect.

"No, I think he'll be more upset that we didn't tell him the truth."

"So he won't care that our Dads…"

"No."

"You're sure? Because if this works then we're going to be like, you know. Family."

"Yes, he won't have a problem with it," Brandon says. "He won't have an issue." I narrow my eyes, my mind racing to figure out what he's not saying. "Just trust me on this. He'll be more pissed that we didn't tell him. And he'll be ecstatic if you end up our brother." I smile at that, thinking it _would_ be pretty cool to have brothers.

"Okay, so part of the plan should be your dad telling him," I say.

"Probably, yeah."

"Okay, well-"

"Are you starting without me?!" Andrew whisper shouts as he enters the room, closing the door with his foot as his arms are full of his school books and bag.

"Just theorizing," I say, glancing at Brandon to cover our tracks. This might be harder than I thought.

"Well I think I know. I bet they fought over the same girl," he says. "That's always it. Maybe even our mom," he says with wide, conspiracy theory eyes. 

"Yeah, maybe," I nod, trying not to give anything away in my expression.

"We should get them to talk to each other. If we lock them in a room together, they'll have to talk about it," he suggests. I glance at Brandon who's starting to smile. God, it's almost too easy.

"That's not a bad idea," he says, nodding at his brother.

"I don't know if my dad will agree to that, so we'll have to be crafty," I tell them.

"Your dad won't talk to ours? That's a hell of a fight," Andrew mutters. We sit quietly for a moment, all nodding. Andrew seems to be thinking about it, but all I'm thinking about is how Brandon and I are going to have to be really conscious about what we say now. "Promise you won't fight with us like that?"  
"Oh, I think it's safe to say that's not an issue," I nod, Brandon smirking behind his hand.

"Good. Okay, let's figure this out before the pizza gets here."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO?! I know a lot of you had some theories about what would happen, who would know something, etc. Some of you have been predicting that Brandon knew more than he let on for quite a few chapters now, and I've had to be quiet about it so this could be a reveal! You're good at predictions, though, and I applaud you. Were you surprised Andrew didn't know, though?? Do you think they'll come up with a plan that'll work?


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a plan is set into motion...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO it's been awhile!! I'm sorry, but for those of you following Hammer Lodge will understand that my mind has been elsewhere. I wanted to wait to publish this chapter until I'd written the accompanying POVs, so thats also why it has taken longer. And with this one especially, the balance between each of the pov's is pivotal.

I fidget as we wait to leave. Dad's double checking to make sure he has everything, his wallet, keys, etc. He grabs his suit and nods at me with a smile. "You ready?" he asks.

"I've been ready," I smirk. "Do you have everything?" I know he does, but he likes to verbalize it, so I ask. Says sometimes it helps him remember if he's left something.

"Yes, I believe so. Let's go." He motions for me to follow and I flip off the lights on my way out of the apartment. I'm nervous, but I don't think he sees anything off about the way I'm behaving thank god. It wasn't a fool-proof plan, but it was the best we could come up with on short notice. I hadn't talked to Brandon or Andrew at all today, so I had to go on faith alone that they'd follow through with their end of the deal and keep Mr. Z in the dark.

The cab ride to the venue is quiet. The only sound is Dad's humming, his fingers playing his legs like a piano. He tosses some cash at the driver when we arrive and greets everyone on the way into the hall. He's most confident here, I think, especially right before a show. I wish him good luck when we reach the point I'm not technically supposed to pass since I'm not a performer and he kisses the top of my head before disappearing behind a door. I start pacing, itching to find a phone to call the Zimmerman's, but know it could risk our cover if Mr. Z answers.

They have to do warmups and everything beforehand, so I mostly just sit around and read Mr. Z's book (my dad still hadn't realized I'd taken it). I can see why Grandpa loved him; his mind works so similarly to his, finds the beauty in the details that my grandfather was known for. Soon, the seats begin filling up with audience members and I fight to avoid looking for them. _They'll be here_ , I tell myself. They had to be.

When it begins, I can't help but smile. Dad had helped organize a series of shows put on by the music department, this being the first of them. Advanced students played alongside professors, Dad being chosen to play the piano of course. This is the first time I've heard him play in months; he was hesitant to even play in these shows, but they had insisted as he's the best they have. Seeing him now, I can't imagine why he would ever stop. He always says teaching fills him with more love for the art, but he's gifted and everyone in the audience knows it.

By the time they finish, I know if Mr. Z is in the audience and heard all that then our plan will work. I turn after it's over and begin searching for them, hearing my name after a few minutes. " _Sam! Over here!"_

"Hey!" I smile when I see them, Mr. Z looking a bit ill. I start to doubt our plan but he smiles at me, just a little. "What are you guys doing here?" I ask, knowing full well why they're here.

"We saw your dad was doing a show," Andrew shrugs. He's trying not to smirk and I think (not for the first time) that he's going to blow it.

"Yes, my sons saw," Mr. Z says. He gives Brandon and look I understand without having to ask. _I had no idea,_ it says. Whatever, I didn't care how they got him here, just that they did.

"Well it's nice to see you. I'm sure Dad will want to say hi, we're getting dinner afterwards, too. You should join us!" I watch Mr. Z carefully for a reaction and see him swallow hard.

"Yeah! We totally should," Andrew says.

"We wouldn't want to intrude," Mr. Z tells me, shaking his head. "We should probably actually leave—"

"Oliver?" I turn at the sound of my Dad's voice. He's still dressed in his performance suit as he steps up next to me and places a hand on my shoulder.

"I was just inviting them to dinner," I tell him, trying to make it clear that he can't take this offer back.

"You what?"

"I was just telling him we shouldn't," Mr. Z says. He looks tense. I glance at Brandon who's watching Dad with the same curiosity. He meets my eyes and shrugs.

"I think it would be nice," he says, looking away from me and towards his dad.

"Brandon—"

"We don't have plans," Andrew says.

"Yeah, come with us. The more the merrier."

" _Samuel._ " Dad seems exasperated and I start to worry we've pushed this too far. I can feel myself deflating but try to mask it.

"Maybe we should go, come on boys," Mr. Z says. I feel my eyes slipping shut in defeat. I know my shoulders sag but I can't help it. This was our one shot, now they'd be on alert and we wouldn't have another opportunity to push them together. If this didn't work, then it was over.

"Wait," Dad sighs. I look at him with wide eyes and he gives me a small smile. "It's the best Italian food in the city," he says, looking over at Mr. Z. "Almost like Mafalda's." _Jesus_ , he knew Mafalda? I mean, I guess he would if he was there during the summer. It's weird to think Mr. Z has all these memories with people who I loved.

"Are you sure?" Mr. Z asks. YES, I want to scream, just fucking accept the offer and let's _go_ before he takes it back. I look back at Dad and see him actually considering it.

"Yeah, let's go," I say, grabbing Dad's arm.

"Let me change first," he tells me, tapping my hand to let go and nodding at the Zimmerman's. "It's up to you," he tells Mr. Z. _Oh no,_ I think. Don't leave it up to him, he's a flight risk! I smile awkwardly at Mr. Z as he watches Dad disappear. God, if they don't talk I'll lose my mind. It's so fucking obvious. I look over at Andrew. Well, maybe not completely obvious, because he doesn't seem to notice _still_.

"Sam," Mr. Z starts. He moves to lean against the wall near us. "Be honest. Is your dad going to be mad if we join you?"

"No," I tell him, shaking my head. I actually have no idea, he'll probably just be mad at _me_ , but I don't say that. "Seriously, it's cool."

"Okay…" He seems nervous. How does Dad not see this?

When Dad finally comes back, he looks surprised. I wonder if he was banking on Mr. Z changing his mind—by the look he gives me I think he probably did. I ask him where he put his suit and he tells me he stowed it away and he'd get it tomorrow. His eyes avoid Mr. Z.

The restaurant isn't that far, and since there are so many of us, we just walk. I keep trying to match pace with the guys so they have to walk together, but it doesn't work; Dad grabs my coat at one point to keep me at his side, his eyes warning me. And okay, I _know_ I probably shouldn't have tricked him and he probably sees right through all this but it's for his own good. And besides, the way he steals glances tells me he wants to see him just as badly as I thought.

We get to the restaurant and sit down at a round table, Mr. Z and Dad carefully sitting with me between them on one side, and Andrew and Brandon between them at the other. And it. Is. Terrible.

Seriously, I kind of regret everything when the small talk is the worst small talk I've ever experienced. How is it possible that they are this awkward around each other? Is it because we're all here that they won't just talk like normal people? I try to start conversations but it isn't really working. Like at all. Dad is silent and Mr. Z is as a result. A waitress takes our orders and Dad promptly excuses himself. "I'm sorry," I tell Mr. Z when he's gone. "I didn't think he'd be upset."

"It's alright," he tells me. He looks sad. This fucking blows.

"Maybe you should go talk to him," I tell him, knowing I'm pushing my luck here. But something has got to give.

"Oh I don't—"

"Yeah, and if he wants us to leave then we could," Brandon says. I see them exchange a look and know that Brandon is in the exact same position I'm in, knowing too much, being able to do too little. Mr. Z takes a deep breath and nods at his son after a long moment of silence, then stands and walks towards the back where Dad's disappeared to.

"So what do we think? Is this a complete failure?" Andrew asks as soon as his Dad is out of earshot.

"I don't know?" I tell him. "I think it's not a lost cause because your dad still went after mine."

"Yeah but does your dad _want_ him to?" Brandon asks quietly.

"I think so?"

"How can you be sure?" Andrew asks, leaning in.

"I don't know… it's just." I look between the two of them. "Okay. My dad extended the invitation, right? Then he's _silent_. Then he disappears. Last time they saw each other they disappeared into that bathroom for like, the longest time."

"You think disappearing is on purpose?" Brandon asks, a smile forming on his lips.

"I think we both know our dads can't figure this out with us listening in," I tell him, meeting his eyes as evenly as I can. We settle into silence for a while, each of us theorizing I guess.

"Do you think they're fighting?" Andrew asks. I look at him and see that he's staring at where they've disappeared.

"Why would you even suggest that?"

"Last time, it seemed like they were angry," he shrugs. "I'm telling you. They must have had a hell of a fight to stop being friends and still be mad at each other."

"They're not fighting," I mutter, but I'm not sure I believe it. The truth is, I'm not sure either of them will be willing to admit that they still have feelings for each other. And if they can't admit that, then I don't see this conversation ending well at all. I hope for all of our sakes it does. Everything is quiet for a minute and I am really starting to freak out. Like a lot. I look over at Brandon and he looks about the same.

"Scale of 1 to 10, how mad is your dad?" he asks.

"I have no fucking clue," I groan.

"Is it worse or better if he's upset that we came to dinner?" I think about it for a second and shake my head.

"I'm not sure. Better I guess. Because that means he still—" I glance over at Andrew. "…Cares."

"They're coming back!" Andrew whisper shouts at me, kicking my leg under the table. I sit up straighter and clear my throat, smiling when they sit down. Okay, here we go. Dad looks a little off, but then the food is arriving and I don't have time to really analyze what they're thinking since there's now a distraction.

And.

It's.

Awkward.

It takes probably a solid five minutes before anyone actually talks, and it's Mr. Z trying to make small talk with me and his sons. I take the opportunity gratefully, desperate for the bitter silence to resolve itself. Andrew starts going off about one of his homework assignments and I add on to his story with one of my own just to keep the conversation going. Eventually, I see Dad start to relax and smile a little, even laugh. Mr. Z does, too, and for a moment I think maybe whatever they talked about in the back wasn't so bad after all.

They still don't actually address each other, though. I guess that's not _exactly_ the best sign, but hey, I can only hope for so much. Andrew winks at me and turns to his dad as the conversation lulls.

Oh no. I look at Brandon frantically, wondering if he sees the glint in his brother's eyes. I feel the urge to stop him.

"Andrew—"

"So what was Italy like? That had to be pretty cool to grow up there," he says, addressing my dad. I glare at him, trying to warn him not to push this too far. I can practically feel Dad tense back up, all progress lost as Mr. Z shifts in his seat.

"It was different," he says, taking a sip of wine.

"Dad always said the villa was one of the most beautiful places he'd ever been." Jesus, _fuck_ Andrew! My hand turns into a fist at my side and I shake my head at him when he glances at me. _What_ he mouths, but I can't fucking believe this. Dad's head turns to Mr. Z and I know we're absolutely fucked because he doesn't look happy. He just looks bothered.

"You told them."

"That I studied abroad in Italy, yes," Mr. Z says, looking over at Dad. I've never wanted to not be in the middle more. "I never mentioned you."

"Sure, why would you."

"Dessert? Are we doing dessert or should we get the check?" I ask, clapping my hands.

"I think the check, probably. It's late, right Dad?" Brandon says. I look over at Mr. Z who has a small smile on his face as he looks back down at the table and shakes his head.

"Do you ever get tired of being so _bitter_ , Elio?"

" _Check_!" I call, motioning to our waitress. My hands are shaky she smiles and nods at me. I look back at Dad when I hear rustling. He's digging into his pocket for his wallet, pulling out a few bills.

"Pleasure to see you again," he says, a carefully constructed smile on his face. I know that smile, that's the _If I didn't absolutely have to talk to you I wouldn't_ smile he uses at events sometimes. "Sam," he says, gesturing to my jacket as he places the bills on the table and starts walking away when I stand to follow.

"I'm—sorry," I mutter, rolling my eyes as I run after him, the cold overtaking me instantly.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next updates/accompanying POV's: For You To Notice (Chapter 2), then Vindicated (Chapter 3)


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